


Occasionally the Twain Shall Meet

by DovahDoes



Series: John/Nuada Meet-Cutes [3]
Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antarctica, But hey-- not just one person is hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John is apparently supernatural royalty!catnip, M/M, Meanwhile John is tired & oblivious, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, because how do i write in this fandom without h/c??? srs, so that's something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: (Sequel toBetter Late (Than Never))It's been nearly two weeks since that one time John fumbled his way through helping the BPRD stop the Golden Army-- or rather, Prince Nuada-- from probably ending/taking over the world.In the meantime, a mission with another high-profile ally goes sidewaysjustin time to bring about a reunion between two antagonistic acquaintances who've not had any reason to interact in several hundred years.And John?  He pretty much just wants to get some sleep.ORNuadafinallyfinds time to actually visit John, but finds out the BPRD agent is not lacking for company, thanks to a familiar member of a local royal family.





	Occasionally the Twain Shall Meet

**Author's Note:**

> You asked, and you have received, you enabling group of kind reviewers. ;P (Not that you had to convince me-- this is one of my fav meet-cute AUs.)

 

_[[Oh!  I made[a ref for Prince Chulainn](https://imgur.com/00ERTXD)\-- that's pronounced "Cullen"-- (and [here's](https://imgur.com/yb6GA6S) a 'dressed up' version), which is mostly spot-on._

_Ideally, he'd look a few years older, as he's just a bit younger than Nuada, but you get the idea....]]_

* * *

 

 

 

It’s just past 1900 hours and John’s only _just_ acquiesced to at least sitting down for a few minutes before retiring to his own quarters to free up more space in the medical wing.  The placid but still _somehow_ smug look on Chulainn’s supernaturally pretty face leaves the human working to suppress crossing his arms in a show of exasperated irritation— mostly due to the fact that almost any movement in excess (as well as sudden breaths) jar his bruised ribs in the absolute _worst_ way.

 

There is a twitch at the edge of dark blue lips as the millennia-old fae prince attempts to maintain as pitiable a look as possible to pull on John’s admittedly delicate heartstrings.  (He _is_ justifiably pitiful, though, what with his typically steel blue skin gone pale from earlier bloodloss, and thick medical tape visible in a gap between the gown and his neck.)

 

“I suppose you are working at piecing together some poor attempt at a polite farewell, even though I, an _ailing_ and _injured_ ally have requested naught but _one_ thing since you have finally arrived in the medical wing.”

 

For someone who tends to play things close to the sleeve, the fae scion could be impressively transparent about his intentions, sometimes.  For instance, for the last hour or so, he’s been shamelessly trying to guilt John into taking one of the very few unoccupied beds in the infirmary.  Unfortunately, the younger man has no intentions of accepting the overnight medical supervision that one of the doctors had strongly suggested, earlier, while laying out his prognosis.

 

“Uh huh,” the BPRD agent replies skeptically, slightly raising a brow with a taped over gash running through it.  “And the fact that you only _made_ said request after hearing me decline an all-night stay here is coincidental, I suppose?”

 

Across from him, sharp, pale periwinkle eyes dance with mirth, and washed out cheeks seem to regain some colour.

 

Finally feeling a bit less worried about his friend (and occasional charge), John resolves to take his leave in the next five or so minutes, so that both of them can get some much-needed rest.  Helping to thwart an assassination attempt on a member of the Winter Court’s royal family (and being put through the metaphorical wringer in the process) has stoked a fiery desire to simply collapse onto his unremarkable, quasi-comfortable bed like nobody’s business.

 

“Once again,” he continues, “thanks but no thanks **;** a lot more folks could use the limited space.  I’ve definitely had worse, and I’ve even promised both you _and_ Narza to check in with the med-staff if anything happens overnight.  _Plus,_ I’m coming back in for a checkup pretty much as soon as I wake up, tomorrow morning.”

 

At the sound of a disapproving scoff, John pointedly rolls his eyes at the prince’s personal guard, Narza, who stands, unobtrusively, at rest near the head of Chulainn’s bed.   The youngest of the royal family seems to subside, allowing himself to slightly sag into the multitude of pillows at his back, finally, and grudgingly beginning to farewell the BPRD agent.

 

“Well, if you _must_ take your leave, then allow me to express my gratitude for your unwavering loyalty and invaluable assistance in battle, today: not even all those who formally claim fealty to my family’s court might be so quick to leap into the fray.  Perhaps this latest example of your wiles will prove to my moth—”

 

Slightly limp, silvery hair follows the movement of Chulainn’s head as it abruptly turns, mid-sentence, to face the entrance nearest their semi-private, isolated corner.  Simultaneously, the temperature in their vicinity drops significantly, and the fae’s features— though not truly _open_ in the way that most people would use the word to describe— suddenly harden, looking remarkably like they had earlier that day during their run-in with the assassins.

 

And although not well-versed in every intricacy, John has been invited in on enough of the Winter Court attachés’ telepathic conversations that he’s _just_ able to catch a whisper or two at the edge of whatever messages the group is reacting to, with how open as they usually leave their loose mental link to him.

 

He manages to garner, from “Who…?” “…strong presence… approaching.” “…unknown.” “…not be read.”, and the movement of the suddenly active, fully armored pair of intimidating praetorian guards, that _something_ is about to come through the utterly inconspicuous double doors, nearby.

 

Frustratingly, having been stripped down to his first and second layer of clothing (close-fitting thermal-wear on bottom, and the same with an unzipped lightweight fleece jacket on the top), John has no weapon to grab for, save an unused IV pole in a corner across the room.

 

Not that that’s really an option, as one of the aforementioned hulking, armored beings uses a foot to quickly and efficiently slide the stool atop which John is perched to a position farther away from the doorway.  He ends up just next to Narza, who briefly presses lightly, but firmly on John’s shoulder to discourage his effort to stand up (and, apparently, to actually _see_ the damn doors when they finally burst open, too).

 

Chulainn, in spite of being laid up in a hospital bed (even if one done up with a few bits of royal finery), still looks ready to materialize an entire blizzard _indoors_ if need be.  Along the same lines, the seated human’s peripheral vision reveals Narza brandishing a wicked-looking black and silver glaive he had _not_ had several seconds ago.

 

John’s sure he must look a bit wild around the eyes, at this point, because what the actual _fuck_ is going on and why is _nobody_ from the _actual_ _BPRD_ doing anything or sounding the alarm if somethi--.

 

“John!”  A somewhat familiar voice calls urgently through the freshly opened doors.  “Agent Myers!”

 

A long exhale sounds from Chulainn, who then relaxes back into his pillows and looks pained in an entirely different way than he did several minutes ago while subtly trying to maneuver around in place.

 

From John’s side, Narza mutters an unknown word in a tone that bears a _striking_ resemblance to the one English-speakers use when uttering the word ‘Fuck’ to express complete dissatisfaction and/or dread with a turn of events.

 

Meanwhile, the voice approaches rapidly, and John’s tired brain starts turning, tentatively identifying the person as Prince Nuada, even with only a fairly brief interaction from several weeks ago to go off of.  Unaware of his ongoing struggle to see exacyly _what is happening_ , the visitor moves even closer, and John catches the edge of a sheathed sword and a dark, leather boot around the side of gleaming silver armor.

 

“ _Where is he_?  I’ve been told of the ambush and battle, and that he could be found in the medical facilities.  Now move aside and let me se—  _Chulainn_?”

 

The two praetorian guards had, in fact, moved aside at what must have been a silent, mental directive from their leader (and _not_ the threats of a stranger, he’s sure).

 

“Indeed,” the just-identified fae says, airily, just a step above deadpan.  “And many-seasoned blessings to you, Nua—”

 

It probably shouldn’t be so strange that two likely-immortal, good-looking members of supernatural royal families know each other, but it’s still throwing John for a bit of a loop, and he can’t find anything particularly useful to say.  As a result, he goes full ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ when the visiting Bethmooran scion turns intense, yellow-gold eyes on his person and _interrupts Prince Chulainn_.

 

“John!  Are you well?  Who was it that attacked you and your allies?  I’ve only heard the bare minimum of the details, so far.”

 

His heartrate picks up and his mouth goes dry under the direct attention of his recent, hard-to-find new acquaintance, and he feels both nervous and pleased all at once.

 

“I-I, uh.  Yes?” he says, voice managing (miraculously) to not crack once.  “There was a— it was a routine escort mission for some scientists, and there was an ambush from a highly trained cabal of frost gargoyles and banished Winter Court members.  We were _just_ able to keep them at bay until reinforcements from the palace arrived, thankfully.”

 

Glancing first at the two fully armored guards standing unobtrusively nearby, John casts a grateful look at Narza, who places a supportive hand back atop his shoulder while the human speaks.

 

“And thanks to Chulainn’s troops, there wasn’t a _single_ casualty **,** either.”

 

Grinning warmly at the fae bodyguard at his side, the young man completely misses the mildly peeved expression that briefly overtakes Nuada’s face as he takes in the highly personal interaction.  The calculating, overlooked fae prince between them all _doesn’t_ miss his fellow potentate’s openly jealous reaction, however, and cannot help re-inserting himself in the conversation he’d initially been snubbed from.

 

“Ah, but dearest John, you deserve thanks of your own, do you not?” he says, evenly, leaving his words to imply an almost simpering congeniality that his face would likely not.

 

Making a dismissive sound and shrugging a shoulder before wincing at the action, John frowns slightly at Chulainn’s words.

 

“Eh…  part of my job description and all.  So, not really?  I mean, you and Narza can only fight so many deadly, magic-wielding creatures by yourselves, right?  Especially when one of you’d already taken two crossbow bolts directly to the chest and somehow survived.  I’m just glad you guys’ve been taking the time to help improve my close-quarters combat skills lately, or I might not have been _any_ help at all.”

 

Based on a surface reading (which is about all Chulainn can clandestinely perform on his old friend, who is highly competent in the mental arts), Nuada seems to be torn between being impressed at the human BPRD agent’s apparent prowess in battle, and an alarmed sense of impotent protectiveness.  If he had the time, he’d dissect whether the oldest of their group wanted to safeguard the youngest’s virtue or his physical wellbeing most.

 

The observations he’s made are all very interesting... and perhaps problematic for the Winter Court scion’s long-standing romantic plans for the sole mortal among them.

 

Meanwhile, starting to feel the soporific effects of the low-dose pain-killer and muscle relaxers begin to affect his ability to stay completely conscious and fully engaged in conversation, John gingerly slides off the stool on which he’d been perched.  Trying to prepare himself for the oncoming discomfort, he straightens up slowly, and successfully withholds a hiss when his ribs pull in the wrong way.

 

“Alright, all.  I’m not exactly gifted with a supernaturally strong constitution, so I’m off to get some sleep and start healing at my usual, slow, human pace.  Good night Narza, Len--  I’ll be sure to report on my first of many nights sleeping partially upright, thanks to these cruddy ribs of mine, when I stop by tomorrow morning.”

 

Narza partially bows at John as he makes his way around the bed and towards the exit.  The cool, reserved fae in the bed itself half inclines his head, and responds in tandem with his personal body guard.

 

“Good evening and safe travels, John.”

 

The two be-helmeted winter court soldiers also partially bow as he walks toward the elf standing silently by the doors, eliciting a rather restrained eye roll in lieu of the resigned sigh he would usually opt for, if not for his own injuries.

 

“Right… oh!  And Prince Nuada, thanks for stopping by to check in on me.  I figured you’ve been insanely busy with the legal-slash-diplomatic nitty gritty of that negotiation you’re working on. Um…”

 

Seeming to come to life and relax a little bit, the Bethmooran noble clears his throat and uses one arm to swing open and hold the door for the younger man.

 

“Mm.  There is no need for thanks, so long as you allow me the honor of accompanying you on the trek back to your quarters.”

 

Glancing back once more at the fae-occupied sector of the medical bay before preceding the unearthly-pale elf into the somewhat well-trafficked hallway, he notes that the two princes exchange their farewells by way of a toneless, tense uttering of the other’s name.

 

And then he finds himself not quite sure what to do with his hands while walking side by side with the intimidatingly handsome accomplished warrior through the drab halls of the BPRD’s Antarctic headquarters in the direction of his quarters.

 

In the week since he’s last seen the other male, it’s been easy to forget the strangely electric sort of energy that had come to life between them during their first meeting.

 

It is not nearly so palpably new and unexpectedly invigorating— likely due to a great degree of exhaustion and a small dose of ‘the good stuff’ finally taking effect— but he _can_ feel the same air of relaxed comradery and warm anticipation lapping at the edges of his muffled awareness.

 

The walk to his rooms takes no more than four or so minutes, and the first minute and a half is spent in a relaxed, pleasant silence, wherein John’s initial starstruck air eventually fades away,

 

When Nuada does speak up, it is in a measured tone that does not carry very far away from their little bubble of shared personal space; an area that is kept suitably isolated by way of the prince’s occasional glares encouraging most passersby to leave them a wide berth.

 

“John— if I may continue to call you that—”

 

John immediately nods, making an encouraging noise, and with little delay, the other man continues.

 

“My thanks.  And… John, I would be remiss if I never apologized for my unintended, prolonged absence from your company after arriving at this base.  Truly, I desired, every day, to find you and reestablish our potential friendship, as you’d seemed very amenable to the idea.”

 

Tilting his head downward in an effort to subtly hide his face, lest the elf see how red his cheeks are getting, John nervously moves his hands so they rest in the warm, fuzzy pockets of his fleece coat.  Absently, he loosely curls the fingers of his right hand around the bottle of extra strength paracetamol he’d been given, eventually thumbing over the slightly raised edge of the paper label.

 

“Oh, well.  You know, I kind of figured you’d be super busy when you got here, what with how rushed and last minute everything was on our end to even get you to _agree_ to come here. So, uh, it’s not a big deal, Your Highness.”

 

Admittedly, he _had_ spent a day or two (or seven) feeling excessively bummed out when there’d been complete radio silence from the royal elf, but he has no desire to _sound_ pathetic when he knows he must _look_ pathetic enough, at the moment.

 

“I am glad to hear this,” his royal escort says.  “And I would ask that you simply call me ‘Nuada’.”

 

A little bit shocked at the invited familiarity, John hazards a look over at the darkly attired being at his side and meets eyes that are oddly serious given the generally light subject matter of their mild conversation.

“Alright.  I can do that.”

Felicitously, _just_ in time to avoid him fumbling his way embarrassingly through another attempt at a coherent sentence, they at _last_ approach the door to his quarters.

 

“ _However_ , I suppose the first time I get to do so is… right now,” he says with a wry grin, using his key card to unlock the door before twisting its handle.  “So, g’night, Nuada.  And thanks for the company— feel free to say ‘hi’ or stop by whenever.  I guess, uh, I’ll see you around?”

 

Pulling his door open and stepping inside, he hears a throat clear behind him and turns around to stand in the doorway, carefully using his body to keep the door propped open.

 

Without much fanfare, a relatively small piece of folded parchment is pressed into his palm, and Nuada is stepping back, again, faster than he can really register just how close he’d gotten.  The loamy smell of earth and something inexplicably crisp and autumnal lingers for a moment.

 

“In case _you_ should ever wish to do the same, John, and call upon me.”

 

With a roguish grin and a small nod of his head, the Bethmooran elf turns and swiftly heads off down the corridor.

 

Sooner than should be possible, he disappears around a corner, and John is left short of reeling, feeling as though he _must_ be missing something **.** Nibbling his lip for a moment in slight agitation and trying to sort out the odd set of interactions and pieces of dialogue from the last quarter of an hour, he nearly misses another door opening up close by.

 

“Hey!” his obnoxious neighbor across the hall crows, seemingly just leaving for the gym, based on her athletic wear.  “Did you just get some supernatural digits, Myers?  _Dammn_.  You better not be trying to keep all the hot ones to yourse—”

 

“Good night, Kipling!” he loudly grouses, torn between rolling his eyes and turning tomato red at her implications.

 

Sidestepping the door to avoid a disastrously painful experience as it automatically pulls shut, he takes a moment to slowly disrobe, making sure to place the loosely creased slip of paper on his bedside table, first.  Taking off his already unzipped fleece jacket is relatively easy, as it’s not too close-fitting.  (He _does_ almost fumble the translucent orange pill bottle as he fishes it out of the deep pocket in which it sits, though.)

 

As quickly as possible, he takes care of his nightly ablutions, giving his teeth the absolute gentlest brushing they might have ever had in his adult life.  The strain of lifting his arm, tensing it, and the way it all pulls at his tender chest are unpleasant surprises he’d not really foreseen.

 

Changing out of his tight, thermal leggings consists of very strategic wiggling and the creative use of his own feet to occasionally pull at the fabric on the opposite leg.  Then, finally thinking ahead, in spite of the creeping, utter exhaustion stealing over him in increasing waves of intensity, he sits on the bed’s edge and dons one of his favoured, super soft pairs of warm pajama pants.  That finished, all that’s left to do is remove the warm, close-fitting long-sleeved shirt he is still wearing.

 

He _definitely_ can’t risk taking a fortifying breath like he wants to, thanks to his current injuries, so he just steels his mind and grips the bottom of the dense material with grim determination (and more than abit of trepidation).  Waiting a beat and exhaling a small breath, he begins to lift his arms, already sort of noticing his vision tunnel a bit.

 

 _Uh oh_ …

 

*

 

John’s not sure if he blacked out, or if maybe his brain immediately repressed the unenviable experience of pulling off a fitted shirt while nursing bruised ribs, but either way, the next thing he clearly takes in is sitting back again his headboard with a fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead.  Gloriously shirtless, at last.  Unfortunately, his respiration is ever-so-slightly elevated (although he _has_ been taking shallower breaths, in general, since the injury), and his torso seems to throb with each breath, even through the haze of painkillers.

 

‘Maybe,’ he thinks to himself, while stiffly rearranging two pillows right alongside his sides (so as to prevent him from rolling over in his sleep and causing discomfort), ‘just _maybe_ Chulainn was right, and I should have taken the doctor up on her offer of a few ice packs to use, after all’.

 

Shuffling down as far as he dares, he tries to make himself a bit more comfortable on the slightly raised set of pillows at his back and under his head and neck.  Breathing shallowly, but more comfortably, he closes his eyes, moving his arm over to his nightstand and hitting the small button that turns off the small lamp nearby.

 

Resolving to check out whatever it was Nuada had handed off to him in the morning, John allows himself to slip off into a light doze that quickly becomes a much-needed deep, healing sleep.

 

*

 

Meanwhile in twodifferent parts of the base, two old acquaintances are encountering two sets of extraordinarily similar circumstances.

 

One has delivered (in writing) a notification to court his intended consort to the person himself.  (Unbeknownst to him, however, his quarry remains utterly oblivious of this fact, and doesn't think to actually _read_ said missive until prompted the next day.)

 

The _other_ has been courting the very same man for nearly two weeks, but only receives the official blessing of his family to do so the next day.  In this case, too, the subject of the would-be-suitor’s attentions is utterly unaware of having been the focus of over a week’s worth of courting attempts.

 

*

 

All in all, the next day at the BPRD Antarctic headquarters is quite the interesting one for Agent John Myers, as, by nightfall, he is made  _fully_ aware that _two_ scarily attractive supernatural beings are inexplicably pursuing his romantic attentions.

 

Overall, it's one of the top three weirdest Thursdays he’s had at the South Pole.

 

Thankfully, he manages to prevent the two princes from entering into a literal duel to the death over the whole matter.  Or rather, he convinces them to postpone it for a few months, so they can hopefully sort everything out without the need for any bloodshed.

 

All John can think is that he hopes the couple of enchantments he's had added to his stationary set will work properly, because Abe and Liz are going to receive one _hell_ of an eventful letter, this month.

 

_**FIN** _

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have, like, a couple thousand words of little snippets I've churned out in this 'verse that don't really have a place to go. Maybe I'll eventually make a lil fic where each chapter's one of those unfinished ideas/concepts...
> 
> *  
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
>    
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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